


String Him Up On High

by IAmTheMonster



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmTheMonster/pseuds/IAmTheMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-The Winter Soldier. Bucky attempts to reconcile his new life with aspects of his old, but the hardest part might be forgiving himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	String Him Up On High

**Author's Note:**

> Just a long drabble aka. I have a lot of Bucky feels. Title taken from "The Preacher" by Jamie N. Commons. 
> 
> Additionally, I'm not entirely sure of the timeline (ie. when this takes place in the MCU) as it's sort of written in a MCU/comic lore limbo.
> 
> Also, I do not know a lot about religion so I apologize for any discrepancies, although I tried to keep things pretty accurate. Feedback is very much appreciated!

Bucky Barnes was a religious man. A good, god-fearing man. He went to church on Sundays and traced his fingers in patterns on the wooden wall as he confessed his sins. It took a while— confessing his sins—, but he showed up. He confessed, which meant the Lord forgave him. That was the point, wasn’t it? To be forgiven. 

But he only attended because it was the “proper thing to do”. His attendance was a result of all those mornings he spent as a kid, sitting next to his mother in her perfectly pressed lavender dress. 

He liked to think he did it for Steve. If he went to church and did what he was supposed to, maybe, the next time Steve fell ill, God would hear his prayers and help him get better. 

But, every time winter rolled around, Steve was on his death bed. Bucky kept going to church anyway. Just in case. 

 

_St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle; be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do Thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, cast into Hell, Satan and all the other evil spirits, who wander throughout the world, seeking the ruin of souls._

 

He kept a rosary tucked into the front pocket of his army fatigues. From the hellhole camps they cowered in, he prayed for God to see their battalion through but, over and over again, he watched good men die. 

He kept praying, clinging desperately to the beads in his hands, slick with blood. He prayed for God to help them win the war. He prayed for God to send them all home. He prayed for God to carry him safely through because he was the only person that could look after Steve properly when he got sick. 

When he ended up on Zola’s table, he prayed someone would save him. He prayed they would stop experimenting on him and leave him to rot in a cell. 

He prayed someone would end it all. He prayed the _next_ injection was one that he wouldn’t wake up from. 

It didn’t work, so he stopped. 

 

_Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom His love commits me here. Ever this night be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide._

 

Steve saved him. No higher power. No force beyond recognition. Just Steve, but Bucky decided there was no greater miracle than seeing his friend healthy and strong and lifting him from that cold slab of metal. 

_I thought you were smaller_.

Maybe his rescue was an act of God or divine intervention, but he found it hard to believe that anymore, not when it discredited Steve. Steve saved him because Steve was good. Steve was an angel.

He supposes he believes in angels. Friends like Steve. Like Natasha, who sleeps next to him and soothes him when he wakes screaming every night like clockwork. He’s lucky. He has two guardian angels. Maybe he doesn't need a god.

 

_Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil._

 

But angels aren’t enough to keep him from climbing out onto the fire escape of the apartment he shares with Natasha. He stares up at the dirty Brooklyn sky and contemplates whether or not there really is someone out there, peering down into the dingy alleyways between apartments. 

Nat hates his nightly ritual, especially on winter nights when he forgets to shut the window and their bedroom turns frigid, but she never asks him to stop. She understands. She always has. 

It’s different now. Now that she knows he’s not going to run from this new life they’ve built together. She trusts that, when he’s done thinking, he’ll crawl back into bed with her and press kisses to her throat and love her like he should. 

Trust is almost as foreign a concept as religion nowadays. He trusts Natasha. He trusts Steve, but that’s about it. 

That’s why he doesn’t believe in God anymore. He doesn’t have enough faith to trust that something’s real without any hard evidence. After all, he was a ghost once too.

He wonders if Steve still trusts him. He wonders if Natasha does, beyond trusting him not to leave or throw himself twenty stories down to dirty concrete. There’s no point. He’d probably survive anyway. That’s what he was made to do. Survive. Fight. But never break. 

There are no stars in Brooklyn, just a moon peeking out from behind brown clouds. The smoke of his cigarette curls up and up in the glow of the lights from various apartments around him. They weren’t lying when they called it the “City That Never Sleeps”. 

He raises the cigarette to his lips, taking a long drag before turning his eyes skyward. It’d be easier if he did still believe. He could confess all his sins and be forgiven. That would be that. No more guilt. No more regrets. Just forgiveness. 

Too bad forgiveness doesn’t work like that. 

But he’s compelled to speak the words in a hushed tone. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was…” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “Shit…” 

Giving up would be easy. He wasn’t too far in yet. He could ash his cigarette and go back inside. Instead, he runs his tongue along the swell of his lower lip and continues. 

“My last confession was… seventy years ago. Give or take.” He flicks the cigarette idly, watching ash spill down the fire escape, and imagines the criss-cross pattern of light spilling from the confessional onto his face. The priest is silent.

He killed a priest on the steps of a church once. The memory is foggy, filled only with the copper tang of blood and the image of a cross superimposed in his mind’s eye. If he lists all his sins since his last confessional, he’s going to be here all night. 

He whispers them first, near silent words dangling off his tongue, sticking there as if it’s easier to stay in the warm confines of his mouth than brave this cold new world. Maybe he’s afraid of them. He’s afraid of himself, still. Gradually, the words grow louder, a steady mumble like a stream washing over smooth pebbles. 

He’s on his third cigarette when he realizes that, for every sin he’s confessed, there’s twenty he can’t remember. How could he seek penance for crimes he didn’t remember committing? That question would throw any priest for a loop but there’s no one to offer an answer so he forges on. 

“My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee,” he murmured, turning his eyes to the end of his cigarette. He watches the ashes, floating off into the wind with the last glimmers of his hope for a dying religion. “I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments…” 

The words are familiar, spoken easily, and he’s not sure why. He hadn’t been able to remember his name a year ago, but he’s repeating an Act of Contrition from heart. If that wasn’t fucked up, he didn’t know what was. 

“…but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love.” But is he really deserving? Does a God who let him suffer for seventy years, brainwashed by maniacs, deserve his love and goodness? His eyes search the murky sky and his lips jerk back in the ghost of a snarl. 

There isn’t anyone listening. 

With shaking hands, he ashes the cigarette before tugging another one from the packet and placing it between his lips. A flame flickers and he inhales deeply.  

“I firmly resolve with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life.” Well, at least he could get on board with that part, except he doesn’t need God for that. 

He tries to mend fences every day. He cooks breakfast for Nat because he owes her a thousand pancakes for all the breakfasts he’s missed in the past decades. He spends hours pouring over the few photos Steve shared with him because he should be able to look his best friend in the eye and talk about that time they went to Coney Island together. 

He watches the smoke again, glancing to the moon, glowing dully behind thick clouds. 

The priest would normally say something here. The words of absolution. Absolute words. He knows there’s no such thing.

“For His mercy endures forever.” 

The feminine lilt surprises him and he glances back to see Natasha peering at him through the window. His eyes search hers, brow furrowed. 

“You’ve said it before,” she explains in the absence of his question. She climbs through the window to sit beside him on the cold metal. 

He crushes the cigarette butt into the ash tray when she settles her head against his shoulder, knowing she doesn’t care for the smell. He doesn’t blame her. The pungent scent clouds the air, making it hard to sense anything else. That’s why he likes the smoke. Dulls the senses. 

“Is it working?” she asks and the corners of his mouth twitch in a half smile. 

“Well, you’re here, so it must be,” he replies, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. She’s always there for him, no matter what and he realizes that he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve the love she showers on him, but she gives it anyway. 

She slips her hand into his and squeezes lightly. “Come to bed,” she murmurs. 

His eyes flicker to the sky one last time. The moon is out now, shining defiantly against the light rising from the army of skyscrapers. He nods. “Can’t turn that offer down.” 

He’s rewarded with a soft chuckle as they make their way to the bed. The window is shut tightly behind them and then they’re falling into each other, lips fighting for dominance and hands memorizing every feature of the other’s body. He lets his thoughts slip away from him as instinct takes over, because they’ve always come naturally to him. They’ve always just worked. He’s reminded of a prayer and it brings a smile to his lips as she tugs the sheets over them. 

 

_As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end._


End file.
